The days began to take a rhythm. Mornings were a little rushed, filled with mismatched socks and last-minute sandwich packing, but there was laughter, awkward at first, but it was warm. Naledi Rain found herself slowly sinking into the routine of her new life, one where Lincoln's name was on her tongue more often than not.
Naledi had made it her mission to learn his world. Lincoln, it turned out, had layers. He loved the sound of piano keys beneath his fingers and the rush of wind as he sprinted down the soccer field. Naledi sat in the front row of every recital, every game, cheering until her voice grew hoarse. She noticed how fiercely he defended his teammates on the field, how he'd frown at unfair calls, but never urged. It was all part of who he was. Thoughtful. Careful. Quietly passionate. He began to like her. Not in the polite, obligatory way. But in a way that showed when she saved him the last cookie or when she asked for his opinion on what to eat for supper. In a way, Naledi waited for her after school with a juice box. Lincoln began opening small parts of himself, like pages of a book she hadn't dared hope to read.
But some pages were still closed. Naledi had never seen Shawn in any of the performances. Not one game. Not one concert. Lincoln never mentioned it, he did not need to. His smile always faltered when he scanned the crowd and did not see his father. She saw it, she felt it in her bones.
One night, long after the house had gone still, Naledi whispered the question into the dark. " Do you think you can go to Lincoln's game this time?" Her voice barely broke the silence between them.
Shawn sighed, "I'm busy, Naledi. Work's been intense." But the question lingered, heavy. Not just for Naledi, not for Shawn. It turned around in his mind long after she'd drifted back to sleep. A few days, Shawn suggested a visit.
"To see my mom?" Naledi asked, surprised. "No," he said. "To see hers. Lincoln's grandmother." The drive was long and filled with more silence than words. When they arrived, the house stood still as stone, surrounded by trimmed hedges and blooming roses that somehow felt too neat, too controlled. Lincoln's grandmother, Alice, was nothing like Shawn's mother, whose disapproval was loud and unforgiving. This woman was colder but not cruel. Distant, but not unkind. Alice observed Naledi with a gaze that held years of grief and caution.
"I do not ask for much," she said, her voice crisp. "Only that you treat Lincoln well. Be a mother to him, that's all." Naledi didn't flinch. "I will, I already do."
And somehow, that mattered. They left without hugs or promises, but something unspoken passed between the women- an understanding, perhaps even a thread of trust. Lincoln reached for Naledi's hand in the car. She squeezed his hands gently.
They were getting there.